


On Sick Leave

by postsfrombeyondtheveil



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Africa, Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Recall, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 12:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12704679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postsfrombeyondtheveil/pseuds/postsfrombeyondtheveil
Summary: McHanzo, Post-Recall, Overwatch is swamped with missions, leaving little time to rest. Jesse's deadeye gives him migraines, worsening the more he's forced to use it and the less rest he gets. Hanzo doesn't find out how sick his partner is until it's impossible for Jesse to keep hiding it.





	On Sick Leave

It must be the heat. That’s what Jesse kept saying to himself, at least. The cowboy had been on assignment in Madagascar, with his boyfriend Hanzo for a whole month now. They were tasked with guarding the United Nations Refugee Mission from assaults by the anti-omnic guerilla group, Maso Rehetra. During their extended stay, Jesse had felt worse by the day. Within the first week he had a slight fever and sniffles. It had evolved into cold sweats, shaky hands, and a brutal, hacking cough. Hanzo was deemed Strike Commander for this mission, so his work had sucked him away from his boyfriend. It wasn’t fun, having to fight through all this alone. But he persisted. 

Despite being under the ill effect of his ailment for almost the entire assignment, Jesse wasn’t a complainer. He bowed his head, and did his work. Shaky hands made aiming difficult, and his lightheadedness made physical activity a struggle. The last week had seen a respite in Maso Rehetra activity. The group hadn’t made an assault on the camp, and McCree was instead guarding refugee transports from the camp to the heliport for extraction. Tonight, Hanzo was driving while McCree took point.

Jesse stood, leaning on the railing of the gunner seat atop the truck. The Malagasy omnics were housed inside, and McCree was supposed to scan the treeline for any Maso Rehetra guerillas. The keyword here is “supposed to” as he had trouble just keeping his lunch down. With every bump and lurch of the truck, the sick man was that much closer to turning inside out. He neglected to give word when three Maso Rehetra fighters flanked them on hoverbikes, as he couldn’t bear to raise his head. Only when the first gunshot whizzed by his ear did Jesse snap to attention, fumbling for his gun. 

The Peacekeeper sat unloaded in it’s holster, McCree neglected to even load the thing when they left. Quickly, he filled the barrel with bullets, aiming towards the first biker. Her submachine gun filled the air around Jesse’s head with lead, narrowly missing his skull. The cowboy dropped flat to the roof with a thud, moaning in pain. His mouth was dry as cotton and his head felt ready to split down the middle at any second. The earpiece buzzed alive.  
“What the hell’s happened?” Hanzo’s gruff voice rang through, confused and angry.

“Couple of assholes with guns and bikes,” Jesse muttered. “I”m takin’ care of it, sweetheart.”

Hanzo laughed, ”And that, that is why I love you!”

Jesse smiled. These were his new favorite parts of missions, the playful banter. He kneeled and grimaced, the pain of his illness pressing freshly upon him. There was one sure way out of this: Deadeye. But every time he’d used it this mission he had only felt worse than before. Infants shrieking in fear reached his ear. There were families aboard. Jesse stood, white knuckles tightly gripping his Peacekeeper.  
“Time to live up to your name, ol’ friend.” The cowboy tilted his hat, and a slight yellow glow appeared around him. His muscles felt alive, his sight clear and veins coursed with power. The heads of all of the guerillas came into focus, and Jesse couldn’t help but smirk.

  


Jesse’s mic had gone silent, and Hanzo worried for his partner. Three versus one isn’t exactly an even fight. The archer kept his eyes on the road, pedal pressed flat to out accelerate the Maso Rehetra fighters. Like so many times since the Recall, Hanzo had no choice but to trust Jesse.

A glow came from atop the transport, light leaking out into Hanzo’s view. Three gunshots rang out and Hanzo could no longer hear any pursuing vehicles. A goofy grin started to spread across his face, but was stopped by a fourth thump, this time on top of the truck. There was no way to be sure, but he knew it: McCree was in danger. Hanzo needed to stop this truck.

The jungle continued to fly by, the vehicle hadn’t slowed. He had frozen in fear. Something slid backwards and off of the truck, landing on the dirt road. Hanzo snapped out of it, slamming the brake and bringing the transport to a screeching halt. Clangs and shouts were heard from within, but Hanzo didn’t care. He swung himself out of the front seat, equipping his bow and quiver in a smooth practiced maneuver. The dull red glow of the transport’s rear running lights illuminated Jesse McCree. He was in bad shape.

The front of his body was covered with vomit, his head was bleeding, and his right foot was twisted the wrong way around. His breathing was shallow and weak, and he was sweating profusely, despite his body being cold to the touch. Seeing McCree, confident back-talking McCree, his Jesse, this worn down and near death, it was too much. Hanzo broke down. Tears began to flow down his face, and he hunched over the cowboy, clenching his teeth. He wanted to kill all of these guerillas. He needed to help Jesse. He exhaled, and then tuned into the Overwatch African Command channel. 

“Strike Commander Shimada, Madagascar Mission Oscar - Romeo - Tango - Echo - Oh - Four - Eight - Two, requesting immediate medical evac.”’

The Executive Officer of African Command, Jamba came in over his earpiece. “Pinging for coordinates now.” Hanzo could hear typing on a keyboard, ”What happened out there? I thought we had Maso Rehetra on the defensive.”

Hanzo wasn’t in the mood for talking tactics. He wasn’t in the mood for talking at all, and he made as much clear. “Jesse is hurt, badly. Need that medical right fucking now, Jamba!”

“Calm yourself, Shimada.” Jamba warned, “Just answer my questions, your medical team is leaving from Lake Victoria Base shortly. Just one injured?”

Hanzo took a deep breath and put pressure on McCree’s head wound to slow the bleeding. “A gravely injured VIP.” He snarled.

“I understand. Describe his condition.”

“Full pedal rotation, probably a fracture. Heavy bleeding from his head.” Hanzo’s voice broke. “He’s vomited all over himself. He’s cold but sweating. Short, shallow breaths. Very, very bad.”

“I’m sorry Hanzo. That medical team is on their way now, I’ll contact Dr. Ziegler and try and expedite transport to the Boston Harbor Base. Just try and stabilize him for now. I’ll stay on the line.” Jamba’s voice was more caring. He was a good leader, although in the moment Hanzo may have disagreed, the two of them had grown to be friends since the Recall. “What happened anyways?”

Hanzo’s eyes widened, “It was my fault, this is all my fault. I’m sorry Jesse, I’m so sorry.” was all he said. Jamba stayed on the line trying to console the inconsolable man until the medical team arrived. One unit stepped off and took control of the truck, saving the refugees. Hanzo insisted on riding with them to Lake Victoria. They had to pry the archer off of his lover’s ailing body. Hanzo sat in the Forward Operating Base, wrapped in an emergency blanket, eyes bloodshot, and knees pulled up to his chest. Quietly, he whispered to no one but himself. “It was all my fault.”


End file.
